


Destruction of Government Property (Woof Woof Little Duck)

by nana135980



Category: Infinite (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-28 00:23:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6306346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nana135980/pseuds/nana135980
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Howon gets his first week off while in service.  It's too quiet and boring in the base, so he ventures down to a little strip club...lo and behold what fate hands him there...</p><p>Basically PWP with some crack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For Fishes

“You have the week off soldier.  Go enjoy it.”

He shifted his feet slightly, his face as stiff as the pillar that stood behind the Master Sergeant’s desk.

“Yes sir!” the young lad bellowed, obedient as a duckling to the grand mother of all ducks.

This was Howon’s first week off since he was deployed and started his tour.  For most soldiers, a week off was seen as a gift sent from the heavens to those struggling in the pits of hell.  It was the oasis for the lost and wandering in the sands of the desert, scorched under the ruthless sun.  The only problem was that Howon, unfortunately, was not part of _‘most soldiers’_.

This young lad was a rigid, shirt-pressed, collar-tight saint of Jerusalem that had no concept of pleasure or entertainment even if it smacked him right in the face.  His mates had labeled him as the ‘lone-aloof-woof’, simply due to the three facts of Lee Howon’s life:

  1. He was always alone, even when others were with him.
  2. His personality touched people at the tip of a ten-foot pole, an awkward little boy with an expression darker than Batman’s black mask.
  3. He made the mistake of showing his teeth once.  He got woof woofs ever since then.



All in all, this week off meant absolute and total boredom.  He had thought of ways on how to make it pass by, scribbled them down on the back page his waterproof field notebook, and buried it under his pillow for the next morning.

The first day seemed to pass by fairly.  He slept late, ate late, lounged around on his bed for half the forsaken afternoon and then took the longest shower he had for that month.

It was sad to say that the second day passed by exactly like the first, albeit much, much slower, and with a longer, much, much longer shower.

By the third day, all Howon could think about was his long showers, and all the stories he’s heard of the other privates sneaking out to a local strip club off-base, and how “relieving” the experience is after months of dealing with just your right hand.

He contemplates the idea the entire fourth day, only to end it with the longest shower of his life that night.

He doesn’t wake up till noon the next day, and he’s already groaning from a wet dream of a dirty blond-haired guy with the finest hand strokes he’s ever imagined. 

It’s dark outside when he finally braves himself enough to sneak through the gates.  He’s already broken into a cold sweat as he speeds down the dire road, the summer heat not lifting at all despite nightfall.  He asks around in a foreign language, his thick accent giving him away, the strangers guessing his intentions without even understanding his words.  They point their fingers and wave him off, and he obliges, slowly making his way to what looks like a poor, broken down building from the eighties.  A single dirty sign holds atop the first door, the words “Red Cabaret” glowing in a fainted neon red, the top part of the C  glitching off and on like cheap plastic, but the music resonating and blasting from the hole like a suction to all men ridden with desire.  There’s odd looking guys lingering around the entrance, smokes in their hands and chains around their necks like they popped out of a poorly-made movie. 

Howon doesn’t really care, because if there was anything to give him credit for, it would be his iron fists and the quick wit when he’s bouncing on his feet—give him a reason to swing, and he’ll plunge like a savage till he gets the job done, and done _thoroughly_.

He makes his way to the entrance, following the descending stairs as the music pounds louder in his ears, the air thick with sweat, smoke, alcohol, and a faint scent of sex from people passing him by.  He finds the bar easily, taking a seat as the music blares around him, poles bolted to the ground on his left, the stage set with two women already putting on a show. 

Then it dawns on him, much too late for his own good.  He’s made his way here with the thought of a hot _guy_ tending to his needs, the build up already tightening his pants—but alas, what if there were no guys here? He could not bear the thought of another long and lonely shower by himself.  He turns to the bartender, his voice a bit rough and a bit too angry, but his question as ridiculous as a drunk howling to the bright moon.

“Do you have any guy… _workers_?”

The bartender stares at him for a good twenty seconds, before slowly putting the glass down and turning to disappear behind the curtain.

Curse his awkwardness to hell.

It’s a good six minutes, or what felt like an hour to the poor lad, before the bartender comes back and dingles a key in front of him. 

“Room 5, down hall, to left,” he says in broken heavy English as he tilts his head for a pointer.

Howon mumbles a thanks, taking the key and making his way down to room 5, a drum starting to pound out of his chest, little tingles of excitement reaching the tips of his fingers.

The door’s made out of wood, painted in an unwelcoming ugly maroon, but Howon opens it anyways and makes his way inside.  He feels like he’s been displaced into an ancient club in Russia somewhere, a fur carpet in front of his feet and a large, red, square block of a couch lined up with the wall.  The right part of the room caught his eye though—a single chair was placed in front of what looked like a make-shift metal cubicle, situated on a platform like a center stage.  There was someone already inside the walls, back turned and head lolling from side to side.

“Lock the door babe.  My show isn’t free.”

It’s the richest, deepest voice that sounds like thick honey to Howon’s ears.  Like a mutt, he turns and locks the door, swiftly making his way to the chair and taking a seat, leaning forward to hide the growing problem between his legs.

The man has broad shoulders, but a smaller waist, giving him the perfect curvature for a male.  He’s hidden in a dark-olive cloak, falling like ripples over his back and a belt tightening it around the waist.  He lifts his arms to the sides and then up, the cloak falling back, revealing long fingers, tender arms, glorious edges fit in white shorts, matching tank, a see-through lace coat on top, and _holy—_ dirty blond hair _,_ just how Howon likes it.

The opening begins with a dribbling, elastic beat and soft hand claps, the rhythm already gliding smoothly through the atmosphere, making it the perfect song for what the other privates would refer to as “horizontal dancing.”  And dance he does, swaying fluidly like water in a vase, his back moving from side to side, and Howon shifts to the edge of his seat to see the face as he turns slowly. 

Howons shoves his arm on top of his legs—the man’s face was not a disappointment at all.  He had rather soft features—most noticeably the thickest, plumpest lips Howon’s ever seen and the most gorgeous eyes lined in a dazzling black kohl that sent a fire scorching deep to the pit of his stomach. 

The man notices Howon squirm in his chair, and he smirks likes a little minx, hell bent on burning Howon with desire.  He dances slowly on his platform, his hands holding the confinement of his walls, his head rolling around his neck before he stops, head tilted far to the side, just to show Howon the delicious parse of skin stretching from his jaw all the way down to his collarbone.  He has his eyes closed in a trance, the beat still playing in the background, matching the twist of his hips from left to right, then back from right to left, again and again.

A small gasp comes out of Howon’s mouth, and the man’s eyes bolt open, a grin now decorating his mouth as he presses those large teeth into his bottom lip, biting it slightly like he’s about to prey on the next soul.  He opens the white lace coat slowly, letting it slide off his arms to the floor as he moves two steps forward.  Then he starts pulling at the hem of his tank top, stretching it down, then lifting it slightly, just enough to give Howon a glimpse of the skin underneath.  It feels like hell in a box for Howon, he’s already leaned at the farthest tip of the chair, pressing his arm as close and firm as he could between his legs--but his pride just wouldn’t let him shed his clothes too soon.

“What should I call you mister..?”

It’s silk weaving through the air to Howon’s ears, and he manages to grunt out his name, his eyes never leaving the flow of the man’s hands, now wandering over the front of his stomach, pushing the offensive white top further up, showing a nipple here and there, and then finally hauling it over his head.

When he undoes the button and loosens the shorts next, Howon finds it hard to keep his breath even anymore.  Next thing he knows, the shorts have found the floor, and the man is striding towards his chair with such confidence that it makes Howon’s legs numb. 

The man harshly pushes Howon back in his chair, slapping away his arm to the side and straddling him.  Howon’s dumbfounded, his brain stuttering on what to do, but the man doesn’t even let him think—he grinds down once, twice, and then rolls his body over Howon’s chest, pressing them together as he whispers Howon’s name in his ear like the dirtiest little secret he’s ever told.

He’s massaging Howon’s arms, his warm breath still in Howon’s ear, and he tells him to make use of those nice arms of his.  Howon’s brain finally catches up, registering to the heat colliding with his body now, and he obliges, letting the inner instincts of a man take control. 

The first kiss is somewhat messy, the man wanting his tongue and Howon wanting his bottom lip, but it only takes a few tries before they’re well adjusted, crashing their lips together before letting their tongues mold and roll around in a taste of pleasure. 

When Howon’s hands finally find their way to the man’s torso, he starts experimenting, carving with his fingertips from the sides of his hips up to his nipples, letting his thumbs roll over them once gingerly, twice with haste, and then pressing down in circles, swallowing the man’s first moan of the night. 

Howon takes his forefinger and brushes it on the side of the man’s jaw, probing it into his mouth as they break off from their mesh of lips. 

“You have a name too..  Or is it better if I don’t know?” 

The man lets the finger soak in his mouth, releasing it only after Howon pries it out.

“Dongwoo.  Now shut up and kiss me.”

Being the obedient little duck he is, Howon takes the man’s mouth again, drowning in the sinful taste of the naked creature laying on his legs.  He grabs the dirty blond hair to push them together, and he gets a full taste of those lips for a few rare moments before the man pushes him away roughly, breaking the kiss. 

“Take this thing off,” he’s grabbing at Howon’s shirt, soon gone in a matter of seconds.  He rubs the heat between Howon’s legs, cupping him over the cloth as Howon’s head falls back, his mouth opening slightly.  Dongwoo has his eyes locked into Howon’s, a small smile playing on his lips as he slides his hand down Howon’s chest and into his pants, slipping under the waistband of his boxers to grab onto the roused member.

A curse slips from Howon’s lips again, his hips bucking up slightly to make some friction with Dongwoo’s hand.  He knows the man is teasing him, his hand only rubbing ever so slightly across his entire length, slowly exploring his size.  He starts rutting slightly against Dongwoo’s hand, his hands grabbing the small of the man’s back to keep him in place.  Dongwoo has somehow found the side of his neck, nibbling at the skin and marking him harshly while he distracts him below.

A cackled laugh emerges from Dongwoo’s lips as he quickly removes his hand from Howon’s pants, then finds Howon’s mouth to kiss him hard till his head spins.

“Stay,” he hisses, and slides like a snake down Howon’s legs to the floor, fumbling with his belt to get the pants off.  Howon, being the helpful little duck he is, lifts his hips and drags down his pants and boxers to the floor, the hard member springing out from its confines, red and bothered.

Howon’s still dizzy from the kiss, and Dongwoo’s too fast for him, propping his elbows on Howon’s thighs and dipping his head to taste the tip of Howon’s pride with a ginger lick. 

He’s been fantasizing about this moment for months.

He looks down between his legs to see the dirty blond working him devotedly, hands and mouth, eagerly and slowly, in a mixed rhythm that’s driving Howon _fucking insane_.  He sucks in a breath, his hand finding the back of Dongwoo’s head to push him further in, the hot cavern encompassing him deep, slick and wet and begging for more.

Dongwoo stares at him point-blank, watching his expression change as he slowly moves his mouth back out, letting the hot member out of his mouth with a pop.  His thumb rubs over the slit, then presses slowly before he holds him in front of his open mouth, teeth first, grazing over the sensitive tip before he sucks him again, bobbing his head back and forth in an endless rhythm that had Howon fighting for air.

“Stop—” his breath hitches, sharp and pained with desire, “stop.”

Dongwoo lazily slows down, and then lazily stands up.  Howon grabs his waist, pulling him forward as he presses soft kisses down his pelvis, letting his hands run in between Dongwoo’s thighs all the way up to his sides, the need obvious in his touch.  He ushers Dongwoo onto his lap again, his tongue trailing up to a nipple, lapping around and encircling the small bud till it stiffens, perking up with color.  Dongwoo’s hands find Howon’s hair, flushing his head against his chest, before Howon takes the nipple into his mouth, sucking slightly, then letting his tongue flex against the sensitive skin, his hand finding the other nipple to flick and knead with his fingers.

Howon’s lost in the smooth skin underneath, but when looks up, and he sees Dongwoo’s eyes closed in concentration.  He notices the man’s hands aren’t pulling on his hair anymore, and then he realizes how they’ve disappeared behind Dongwoo’s own back, grasping exactly what the man’s doing to himself.  The mere idea sets him on fire, and he suddenly grabs dongwoo by the back thighs, heaving them up together towards the couch in the back.

He lays Dongwoo down like an artist displaying his masterpiece, and Dongwoo loops his leg over his arm to reach back into himself again, fingers digging as his breath hastens.  He watches like a hawk as Howon runs back, bending down to pick something off the floor before he graces himself back in front of Dongwoo with the lace white coat. 

Dongwoo lets out a small laugh, but sits up straight anyways as Howon places him into the white lace coat, barely hiding anything and yet making the man look sexier than anything Howon’s ever seen in any magazine or fantasy.

“Howon..” the man trails off, his voice heavy with need and desperation.  “Come here.”

Soldiers are meant to follow orders.  And follow he did.  From the moment he joined his body with the man in the white lace coat, he knew he was not the one in control.  Warm, wet, and tight as a vise, Howon slides into him and out, the moans urging him to push harder, push deeper, and _fucking hell_ did he listen with all his body.  Dongwoo’s legs wrapped around Howon’s thighs like vines, locking them together, leading him forward as they struggled with their bodies for nirvana.  It wasn’t normal for Howon to be rash, and he tried thinking about what he was doing for a whole three seconds before Dongwoo smashed their lips again, his tongue playing wonders and his hands pressing unspeakable buttons on Howon’s body that he never knew existed.

He clutches onto Howon’s neck, pulling himself upwards while Howon’s palms find the top of the couch to hold himself on—the man starts riding him, flicking his hips back and forth, and Howon pushes up, up, up, all the way to meet him there. Groans and whimpers resonate across the room’s wall, their shadows skipping along under the dim lights till they becomes a blur, two bodies merged into one, too fast to be sober off a drunken high called pleasure.  Howon seems to have lost it all, pounding into the man with the lace coat until he saw white, their bodies quivering when euphoria was finally reached.

He had never followed as many orders as he had that hot summer night. 

The next morning, the Master Sergeant calls Howon back into his office, to assign him his next task.  So Howon gets into uniform, his eyes popping from his head when he notices the hickey is visible from his collar—blue, purple, and proud. 

A few miles down the road, and a few hours later, Dongwoo’s laugh echoes through the old building, the amusement loud and clear in his voice.  In his hand, there is a letter for a certain Dongwoo of the Red Cabaret building, with a specific message from the government. 

_SUBJECT: Destruction of government property_

_Mr. Dongwoo—I present you with a warning.  You have harmed government property.  Please don’t do it again._

_Sincerely,_

_MSgt. of the Army_


	2. Names and Games

He knew this would be a bad idea, but he didn’t quite know _how_ bad it would be.  Maybe another scolding, maybe extra chores, maybe extra push-ups, but now -- now, he knew that he was going to get his head chewed off the next time he stands in front of his sergeant. 

The thoughts were spinning around in his mind like ink in a bottle, dark swirls twisting as the sweat gathered on his forehead, the pain in his neck killing him.  The needle kept on buzzing alongside his thoughts, digging into his skin, writing the name there permanently.  He cursed under his breath, his patience wearing thin.  Who knew that a tattoo would be such a pain?

Howon looks up using his eyes only, not daring to move his neck as the needle went on buzzing again, making the name thicker across the side of his neck.  Dongwoo meets his eyes, bending down slowly to his ear.

“He’s almost done.  You’ll be in my bed right after that.”

He says it so casually, as if talking about the weather to the guy next to you at a bus stop, and it blows Howon’s mind to no end.  He feels Dongwoo’s slender fingers running across his forehead and through his hair, tousling it backwards and out of his face.

The tattoo artist finally stops, and starts talking to Dongwoo in the other tongue that he couldn’t quite understand.  After a few exchanged words, Dongwoo taps Howon’s shoulder and motions him to stand up.

“You’re done.  Get up, let’s go.”

“Can I see what it looks like at le—”

“No, that’s not part of the deal.  Remember you said you’d do anything I tell you to, so now move.”

It’s true that Howon had wanted Dongwoo badly.  Badly enough to say that he’d do anything to keep seeing him again. 

“ _Anything?”_

_“I can pay more than all of them.  I can get you whatever you want.  I can even—”_

_“You said anything?”_

_“Yes.”_

He thought he might have been drunk, but the conversation was still so fresh in Howon’s mind that he doubted he was even close to being inebriated.  He remembers exactly how Dongwoo’s lips curled into a smile, his eyes glinting like a devious little fox, and one hour later here he stood with a tattoo running across his lower neck of Dongwoo’s name in bold, black, cursive letters.

Dongwoo’s steps are light as he leads the way to his apartment in the dark night.  Howon lags a step behind, his hand glued to his neck and his mind still wandering back in time. He catches Dongwoo saying something about _just up these steps_ , and he follows him into a two floor apartment complex that almost looks like an extended stay motel.  A dog barks from somewhere in the distance, and the humming of the air conditioners fills the air like fog.

Dongwoo’s waiting for him in front of a door, already open and keys in hand, palm up and held out to lead Howon inside.  Howon pauses, his slow brain finally catching up after the eight drinks Dongwoo had poured him earlier at the bar.

“Can I ask you something at least?”

Dongwoo tilts his head slightly, blinking once, and then narrowing his eyes at the naïve soldier standing next to him.

“Not yet,” he smiles, grabbing Howon by the arm and pulling him along into the apartment before slamming shut the door behind them.

He has Howon’s back pinned to the door, the keys already dropped to the floor and his hands digging into Howon’s hair, kissing him like he owns him from head to toe.  In between kisses, Howon’s questioning, pointless whats and waits, and Dongwoo shuts him up each time with his lips.

Dongwoo breathes into Howon’s right ear, deep-toned and laconic in a manner completely different than what he’s seen before.

“Don’t talk.  Don’t move.”

And Howon wouldn’t dare do either.  He’s too busy focused on how Dongwoo’s hands slide down his jaw, ghosting over his neck, and then spreading his fingers like a web over his chest, weaving across the tight muscles hidden under the shirt.  Howon’s pressed into the door again, his palms flat on each side of it as he watches Dongwoo drop to a knee in front of him, his fingers ripping down over his abs and hooking onto the belt of his pants.  His other knee finds the floor, and he exhales slowly, as slow as his fingers trudging over the front of Howon’s pants, kneading up and down between his legs over the fabric.

Howon hears the clink of metal from his belt, and then the humid air sticking on the inside of his thighs, exactly where Dongwoo’s hands are grasping, tugging, the hot, hard breathing from his lips so close—and Howon’s swallowing down a scream when he feels the lips on him, wet fire and electric shocks all rolling together as those teeth grazed forward, Dongwoo’s fingers holding the base leading his mouth in.

It’s hard for him to even remember how his hands got tangled in Dongwoo’s hair, or how the back of his head tingles with the pain from throwing his head back too quickly, too _brutally_.  His heartbeats are drowning the sounds in his head, and he’s desperately trying not to look down because he fears the sight will take him right over the edge. 

Then a moan pushes its way right out of Howon’s throat, long and heavy as he gives in and tilts his head forward to get a sight of the man in the valley down below.  Each time he felt that scorching tongue flick on the tip he’d have to suck in a sharp breath, his muscles clenched, his fingers numb with pain from all the effort he’s exerting to not pull too hard, to hold himself together, to _pretend_ that he even has an ounce of control over the situation.

Small quivers dance along his skin, mingling in huffs of Dongwoo’s heavy breathing as he pulls back slowly.  Then Howon realizes that Dongwoo’s actually laughing; a small, light, snicker before he stands on his feet again, amusement written all over his face while Howon looks like he’s fighting the demons of hell with a matchstick.

“Bed,” and he’s grabbed a chunk of Howon’s shirt, pulling him forward as Howon’s feet stumble to move along.  Howon barely gets a glance of the room before Dongwoo ungracefully shoves him onto the unkempt bed, already pulling off his shoes, socks, then tugging at the pants before peeling them off of his skin, sweaty and humid.

“Sit back and take off your shirt,” he tells Howon, while he shimmies out of his own clothes right there in front of him, giving him only a moment before he’s pranced at him again, kissing him roughly, flush body to body, slick skin against skin, sliding hands touching, feeling, savoring the heat underneath.

Howon tries to hold Dongwoo still, but it’s like trying to mold water with bare hands, his body sliding smoothly in Howon’s arms, maybe from the glistening sweat, maybe from the glossy skin, roaming up and down, again and again on his lap in some magical trance.   It’s hard for Howon to even focus, especially with the sounds coming out of Dongwoo’s mouth like a human saxophone vocalizing the lust of the night, as he then throws his head back, saddling down on him languorously like honey flowing viscously down his thighs.  Everything in Howon’s head is a white murky cloud, the whole room hazy in his eyes, the only sense he’s clutching to is the feeling of Dongwoo pressing down on him, the hitches in his breath as he moves, small, rapid thrusts with Dongwoo’s nails etching into his shoulder blades, mewling and encouraging him to pick up the pace. 

Any concept of discipline flies out the window of Howon’s head, his fingertips sinking in Dongwoo’s hips, pressing under pressure, latching onto him like the Earth’s crumbling around them, the blood pumping in his veins like wild animals on the prowl. 

They’re too busy being buried in each other to even hear the front door open, an elder man walking gingerly into the house, following the sound of grunts and groans echoing off the walls of the bedroom.  He stands by the door, watching them unfold under each other’s touches before Dongwoo throws head back,  screaming the name of the man underneath him, his eyes rolling into the back of his head while Howon burrows into him to find his end, his arms flexing and contracting with each body roll to unwind. 

The intruder gazes on from the bedroom door, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed.  He watches Dongwoo give Howon long, luscious, wet kisses, their high slowly unraveling, like feathers fluttering down to the floor softly.  He waits a moment before clearing his throat, snapping both of them out of their rapture.

Howon looks crazed, but Dongwoo’s eyes only widen slightly before the satisfied smile tugs back at his lips again.

“Do you need something Sunggyu?” he asks jauntily, his hand clamping against Howon’s mouth in an effort to shut him up.

“No, just dropping by.  I haven’t heard you scream like that before,” he takes a step forward, his eyes scanning Howon on the bed until he sees the tattoo flaring on his neck.  “You actually got his name tattooed on you, you idiot?”

Howon drops his jaw, but Dongwoo just throws his head back and laughs.


	3. I'm a man, I'm a twisted fool

The water runs down his back, lukewarm even though the knob is turned to cold, the summer heat having poisoned everything underneath the beating throb of a scorching sun.  He runs his hands through the short black strands of his hair, arguing with himself in his head.  

It’s hard to make sense of what he was to Dongwoo right now.  He didn’t know whether to classify their relationship as lovers or sexfriends, or something else completely different that Howon can never fathom.  They have been meeting quite frequently, whenever Howon was done with work at the base and dongwoo didn’t have to bartend at the cabaret.  Dongwoo had been assuring him that he hasn’t taken on any new customers since Howon agreed to his deal, but there was always the slight drop of doubt in the back of Howon’s mind, stirring in the waters.  Moreover, he’s found himself quite uncomfortable with that Sunggyu person that seems to be quite close to Dongwoo.  Brushing it off as jealousy would be quite pitiful on his end, so instead he tries to ignore their    unreasonable intimacy altogether.

There’s voices outside, and so he turns off the shower, quickly drying himself and slipping into his pair of boxers.  He heads out the bathroom, Dongwoo’s name on the tip of his tongue when he comes face to face with none other than the fox demon himself.

“Dongwoo went out to get some drinks,” Sunggyu says nonchalantly, in that same deflated tone of his that always managed to get underneath Howon’s skin.

“Mm,” Howon grunts, maneuvering his way around Sunggyu to the kitchen.  He takes a glass out of the wooden cabinet, then grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, pouring it for himself in a lazy manner.  He had been staying at Dongwoo’s apartment probably more than he stays at his dorm room, and thus he had become quite accustomed to the place as if it were his own.  His true intentions, however, were to prolong his stand in the kitchen as much as he could until Dongwoo comes back, simply because he hated being with Sunggyu in the living room alone.  The plan backfires quickly when Sunggyu pads his way to the kitchen too, sitting at the counter right in front of Howon.

An awkward silence reigns over Howon’s head; Sunggyu’s continuously staring at him, and Howon’s doing his best to pretend like he’s preoccupied.

“You really seem to hate me, don’t you,” Sunggyu starts, a smirk already sliding on his face.

Howon grits his teeth.

“You’re right.  I do,” he smiles, a sickeningly sweet smile that does not fall under his normal character.

“You know I used to date Dongwoo right?”

In a brief moment, Howon wanted to slug him.  He wasn’t sure if the man was intentionally saying this to drive him up the wall or whether he was simply trying to converse with him.  Either way, he had suspected that Sunggyu and Dongwoo had been together at some point--why else would he have the key to Dongwoo’s apartment?  

The years of service under his belt helped him hold his fist and mouth at a pause, long enough for his next words to be chosen quite carefully.

“Sunggyu...what, exactly, do you want?”

It doesn’t seem to be the reaction Sunggyu was expecting, and so his face stills for a moment, something sharp hiding in his eyes.

“Nothing.  I’m his friend now and I want to get along with you.  So can you try to act decent with me for his sake at least?”

“No.”

The answer is decisive, blunt, and coinciding perfectly with Howon’s usual demeanor.  Sunggyu stares for another few moments, and then simply sighs--but his lips stretch back to that smile he usually holds, and for once Howon starts to think that this man probably hides much more underneath that veneer on his face than meets the eye.

“When I first saw you I knew you were a fool.  You still are,” he smiles, and walks back to the living room just when the front door rattles, Dongwoo stepping inside with a cheery smile.

Howon lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.  For some reason, he just didn’t really like Sunggyu.  The man was too complicated for him, like a tangled plethora of mind jarring words jabbing at his patience; Howon preferred things simple and straight-forward, the vague always crept beneath his skin uncomfortably.

He hears a clap next to him, and Dongwoo’s staring at him.  He realizes he’s been spacing out, and apologizes quickly, Dongwoo smiling at him in that cheerful bliss that had Howon falling for him each and every time, despite the atypical way that fate brought them together.

“Let’s have a few drinks before you have to go back.”

They end up watching trash television, an unusual setting between them where Dongwoo was the only common factor.  The weird thing about it was that Sunggyu actually tried to talk more to Howon than to Dongwoo, as if purposefully trying to push his buttons, trudging some sketchy line of underhanded insults and downright flirting.  

By around ten, Howon and Dongwoo head outside, and Sunggyu sits alone on the couch, the television left as white noise in the back of his thoughts. He watches the silhouettes of the two, the sounds of bones shaking as their shadows warped in a waltz, slowly merging, morphing into a single bodied monster with two heads.  It made Sunggyu’s veins pump with a gush of bitterness, the same feeling that has been coursing through him ever since the first night he saw them together.  He gets up, taking the empty drinks with him to the kitchen, and catches a glimpse of their tongues tied out the doorway.  The wiser part of him knew where those two were headed; their relationship was a snake coiled on itself, head clamped in it’s own tail and eyes blind.  The other part of him accused him of being a twisted fool himself.

The door closes again, and Sunggyu watches Dongwoo go lay on the couch, spread leisurely with his head hung back and a content sigh.  Sunggyu’s eyes drifted over the still man, gliding over the hills and valleys lost under the fabrics he carried.  His right hand is placed on his chest--long, boney fingers sprawled limply, oval fingernails like diamonds crowned on the tip of each digit sending Sunggyu’s mind to a very dangerous place.  

“Keep staring like that and your eyes might just fall out.”

A scoff slips through Sunggyu’s lips, and he slowly makes his way back to the living room.  “Aren’t you being too cruel Dongwoo?”  

Dongwoo shifts on the couch, but Sunggyu’s already leaning above him, one knee pressed between his thighs while his his left hand molded into the hip.  

“Sunggyu,” Dongwoo pulls himself halfway up, and Sunggyu’s chest collides with his, his voice low in his ear, words too fast and crooked for logic to build into them.  “It’s the same.  It’s all the same Dongwoo.  Soon he’ll be stationed somewhere else, it’s always the same with these military guys.”  

His hand curves around Dongwoo’s hip, his weight pinning Dongwoo back to the couch while his lips pressed to the side of Dongwoo’s neck.  In a glimpse he can taste Dongwoo underneath his tongue, his head floating back to a black and white memory of years past, and the heat courses through him like a wildfire on a dry plain.  It’s a blur of confusion, a tidal crash of tangled limbs and bruises, a searing pain etching into Sunggyu’s bottom lip, and then the sharp taste of iron in his mouth. He feels Dongwoo’s hand tunnel between their bodies to grip him tightly below, in a steel grasp that was too painful for Sunggyu, forcing him to pull off of Dongwoo and let out a cry of agony that resembled too much of a moan for even his own ears.

Sunggyu looks beneath him, and Dongwoo’s eyes are a deep, solid, black.  Two small drops of red were on his chest, and Sunggyu quickly realizes it is his own lower lip dripping from where Dongwoo had bitten him.

His breath hitches, catching in his throat like a chemical reaction from the mere fact that Dongwoo’s body was so, so close to his.  “Let go-hh,” Sunggyu tries, and Dongwoo only squeezes harder.  Sunggyu could feel his arms shake, barely holding himself up as the little tremors started numbing his limbs, and before he knew it he crashed face flat into the empty couch, Dongwoo already standing back on his feet next to him.  

There’s a distant look on his face, like his eyes had fallen into galaxies brimming with haze.  Sunggyu takes a sharp breath on the couch, and Dongwoo’s voice emerges out like a plume from his body, detached and eerily devoid of emotion. “You’re pathetic.”

“Dongwoo, you know Howon’s a fool--”

“--you’re the fool Sunggyu.”

The guilt strikes Sunggyu hard, like a thunderbolt clapping onto the ground, and he’s frozen in his spot, silently watching Dongwoo walk away, the bedroom door slamming shut behind him.  It hurts, the closed box in his chest and the throbbing pain between his legs, both pulling his mind in opposite directions, and it made him completely, utterly, furious at how little control he had over his own body.  And how much Dongwoo was right. The worse part of it all though, is that he knew this desire wasn’t brewing for Dongwoo, but rather the traces that man left on him.  

The irony slaps him like a brick in the face, and he finally comprehends that he’d fallen for a fool.


End file.
